


Road to Altea

by rinthegreat



Series: Cyberpunk Universe [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Cyborg!Shiro - Freeform, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Violence, pilot!Lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 08:13:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13290765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinthegreat/pseuds/rinthegreat
Summary: With the anti-cyborg movement growing in the city they call home, Keith knows he has to get Shiro out of here. Word has it that Altea is a more accepting metropolis, one that has been accepting cyborgs with open arms. The only problem? They can’t get out without the proper paperwork. But Pidge knows a guy, a cargo pilot by the nickname Sharpshooter who might be able to smuggle them both out. If only Keith could get along with the guy…





	Road to Altea

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as my Cyborg Free! fic, but you don't need to read one to understand the other. There are little easter eggs in here from that fic if you're in both fandoms but otherwise you honestly don't have to read that to get this one.
> 
> Many thanks to [thislittlekumquat](http://thislittlekumquat.tumblr.com/) for betaing again!
> 
> The art in this fic was all drawn by the immensely talented [kuiper](https://kuiperdraws.tumblr.com/). As with all my fics that contain art, please **do not repost**. Reblog links for it will be at the bottom.

Keith drums his fingers on the table, counting the taps as he waits. He’s only been here five minutes, but even the short wait is getting on his nerves. His leg starts shaking under the table, bouncing the entire booth with it.

Sitting still has never been his strength.

“Hey.” The voice breaks him from his thoughts, bringing him to the present, as the person he’s been waiting for slides into the seat across from him. “Sorry I’m late.”

Keith forcibly stops his rapping. “Nah, it’s fine.” His eyes twitch nervously around the rest of the diner. It’s mostly empty – hardly surprising given that it’s mid-afternoon on a work day.

They raise their eyebrows. “That’s all I get? No ‘hey Pidge, long time no see’? Or even an ‘I’ve been waiting here forever; where’ve you been?’ I’m disappointed.” But they have a smile on their face. Or rather, a smirk.

“I’ve only been here about five minutes.”

“That may as well be five days for you,” Pidge retorts.

Keith sighs, running a hand through his hair. He picked this diner because they have the lowest-end surveillance of anywhere in this section of the city. Also because he knows this is where Pidge does most of their meetings for their…less than legal endeavors.

“I need your help.”

“I figured.”

“Can you just –! “ He stops, taking a few deep breaths to calm down. Now is not the time to draw attention to their meeting. “I’m sorry, I’m just stressed.”

To their credit, Pidge actually looks somewhat sympathetic. “Alright, no more jokes. What do you need help with?”

Keith reaches into his glove with the opposite hand and pulls out a folded note, sliding it across the table to Pidge. They give him a curious look but take what he offers. “Holy crow, is this paper?!” they whisper shout, looking down at it then up at Keith, wide-eyed.

“Burn it when you’re done reading it,” he urges.

Pidge unfolds the note carefully, as if they’re afraid to rip it. They probably are, actually. Paper hasn’t been seen around this area in years – not since everything was fully converted to digital. Their eyes move rapidly over the words before they fold it carefully back up. “You’re serious about this?” Pidge checks, looking over at them with a more somber look than before.

“Yes.” He’s never been more serious about anything in his life.

They nod, passing the note back. “I won’t burn it if I keep it, Keith. You know that.”

“But you’ll still help?” He checks, tucking the note back into his glove.

“Of course.”

Keith sighs in relief. If Pidge hadn’t been able to help him…well, he doesn’t know what he would’ve done. “Thank you.”

They nod, pushing themself out of the booth. “It’ll take a few days, but I think I might know someone.”

“Someone you trust?”

“Keith, I would never send you to someone I wouldn’t trust with my own family,” they assure him. “I’ll message you when I have the details.” And with that, they sweep out of the diner, leaving Keith once again alone.

The entire exchange had taken less than ten minutes, barely longer than he’d been sitting here waiting for Pidge to show up. But it had been worth it. Anything would be worth it for his brother.

He ends up ordering a coffee to go, figuring he should at least pay for something since he sat here for fifteen minutes, before heading back home.

They live nearby, so it doesn’t take long for Keith to walk home. This area of Daibazaal is dirtier than some, the neighborhood poorer than average. As a result, it’s avoided by most others, making it a home base to those with questionable morals and who don’t fit into societal norms.

Their apartment had been upgraded back during the digital boom, so they at least have a code rather than a key – something not all apartments in the area can claim – but it’s an old fashioned number pad, with buttons he has to physically press. Out of habit – their last apartment had been broken into – he covers the keypad with one hand as he unlocks the door and checks both ways down the hallway and behind himself on the balcony before pushing the door open and walking in.

“I’m home,” he announces, immediately closing and locking the door behind him before he kicks off his shoes. Their floors are made of plastic, painted to look like wood, though the paint is peeled up in some areas, revealing the concrete floor that really holds the building up. They have to wear house shoes inside, which Keith slips on before he steps up onto the real floor, or risk getting plastic splinters in his feet. A harsh lesson they’d learned when they first moved in.

“In here.” Shiro’s voice comes from the living room, exactly where Keith thought. The entrance hallway isn’t long, meaning he spots Shiro soon after coming in.

His brother is doing his daily afternoon workout routine. He has two routines per day: a morning one and an afternoon one. Sometimes he adds a third late at night. It wakes Keith up when he does, but he knows better than to bother him about it; he knows Shiro needs it to keep the nightmares at bay.

Keith sets the coffee on the counter. “Brought you a coffee.”

“It’s two in the afternoon,” Shiro grunts between pushups. “You know I don’t drink it this late.”

“It’s decaf.”

Keith watches his brother finish his sets, taking a seat on their couch. When Shiro stands up, he’s covered in a light sheen of sweat. He must’ve done a few extra rounds today while Keith had been out.

“Where were you?” Shiro asks, going for his bottle of water instead of the coffee. He chugs down half of it before going to the sink for a refill – from the filter of course. The water had come out brown until Shiro had finally convinced Keith to get a filter. It’s the only item of value they own. Outside of Keith’s knife and Shiro’s…well, Shiro.

“Nowhere.”

Shiro side eyes him, suspicious. “Nowhere except the diner,” he remarks, grabbing the coffee cup. He sniffs at it and sets it down again. “That’s not decaf.”

“I’ll drink it then.”

“If you’ve ever wondered why you’re almost as short as Pidge, this is the reason,” Shiro deadpans.

Keith grabs the nearest pillow and throws it at him. Shiro chuckles a little as he ducks. “I’m going to shower. Try not to disappear while I’m in there.” He says it in jest, but Keith knows he worries. Shiro covers his concern with bad jokes that even he has to force himself to laugh at, but Keith knows the truth.

That’s why he went to Pidge.

 

* * *

 

 

The next two days pass by with no evidence of Keith’s conversation with Pidge aside from his memories, anxiety, and the note he finally burns. The days are the same as they’ve been ever since they’d moved out here, until Keith feels himself going insane from the normalcy of it all.

The days go like this:

Shiro wakes up first. Keith’s not entirely sure what he does between the time he wakes up and when Keith does, but when Keith does wake up they do their joint workout. And it’s the same one every morning. They go for a several mile run to start. The distance varies slightly, but they never venture too far outside their neighborhood. As soon as the alleys get cleaner, they turn and head back, zigzagging down the more familiar, neighborhood roads instead.

The run is always followed by a sparring session. They had started this back after Shiro had his operation, using it as a way for him to get used to his new arm. The metal is heavier than his human one had been, and their first training sessions had involved a lot of ice packs and bandages on Keith’s part.

But it all paid off.

Now, when they spar, Shiro knows how much weight to put behind his hits. Keith’s adapted as well, learned how to use his smaller size to his advantage. Personally, he prefers using his knife than regular hand-to-hand, but Shiro refuses to practice with weapons – even when Keith argues that his arm is as good as a weapon by itself.

They only have one shower, which Keith always uses first. When he comes back out, Shiro’s always already pushed their sparse furniture back to its normal spot, and he’s usually doing another round of pushups while he waits.

Keith pulls up the help wanted ads on his tablet while Shiro showers, checking the odds and ends jobs of the day. He usually picks one or two if he finds them, never knowing when the next jobs will come up. They have some savings – money he plans to dip into for the job he requested from Pidge – but the jobs help keep him busy.

He doesn’t know what Shiro does all day when he’s out. All he knows is that if Shiro leaves, he always wears long sleeves and gloves. Now, with the heat reaching its peak, it’s obvious what Shiro’s trying to hide, so he goes out less. So far nothing’s happened to him in this neighborhood, but the anti-cyborg movement is starting to grow.

That’s why Keith’s so nervous.

This side of the city sees plenty of cyborgs, making it a safe zone. While Daibazaal isn’t as bad as some, it’s bad enough to make Keith nervous. Shiro’s been through enough as it is; he doesn’t need to live in fear of what he is. Keith already has a hard enough time trying to convince him that he’s normal, that his arm doesn’t define him. That his scars could’ve been a thousand times worse, given the circumstances.

He fixes a hover-bike the day after he met with Pidge. The owner had ridden it out past the city limits into the desert and had gotten sand in the filter. Of course, they’d done that weeks prior to posting the help wanted ad and they hadn’t cleaned it, which meant by the time Keith gets to it the sand’s worked its way into the electronics, causing a bigger mess for him to clean up. But this owner is lucky, because the fix ends up being purely mechanical: take the bike apart, clean it off, put it back together, and it works.

It takes most of his day, leaving him sweaty and covered in grime by the time he comes home. But the work had at least let him take his mind off of Shiro, and Pidge, and whoever it is that Pidge knows who can help him. It also pays pretty well.

The next day the jobs he finds are easier, plumbing and cleaning mostly. He keeps all the money he makes from it and puts it together with his savings. He doesn’t know how much the person will charge him for this job, but he does know that with what he has, they could afford a nice apartment in one of the richer areas of the city for about a year.

He’s been saving for a long time.

After his jobs, he comes home. Shiro usually prepares dinner for them both, something simple but filling. Keith has to clean himself up again – one of Shiro’s rules is that they aren’t allowed on the furniture when sweaty and gross – and usually passes out fairly quickly. At least depending on how hard he’d pushed his body that day.

They sleep on twin mattresses on the floor of their bedroom, separated with just enough space for Keith, whose bed is pushed against the wall, to get up without stepping over Shiro if he needs to use the bathroom in the night. Both nights since his meeting with Pidge, he’s woken partway through the night by Shiro’s grunting coming from the living room.

He’s getting worse.

Three days after their meeting, Pidge sends him a few encrypted messages. They contain a time and location along with a note. _He goes by Sharpshooter_ , they say. _He’s an old friend of mine, but he’s a little strange._

Keith has done a few odd jobs for Pidge before: their less-than-legal ones. So he knows the guy’s name isn’t Sharpshooter, but Pidge knows better than to reveal anyone’s real name over the net. So instead he’ll have to get there early, just to check the scene out, and hope that this Sharpshooter guy is reliable.

The meeting is set up for the next day, but that doesn’t stop Keith from pacing up and down, nervously. Shiro’s gone out to get groceries – a task Keith had forced on him so he has to go outside at least once a week – but when he comes back, Keith hasn’t sat down.

“You’re going to wear through the floor,” Shiro warns, lightly amused when he comes in.

“It’s made of concrete, I don’t think I will.”

Shiro goes into the kitchen and starts putting this week’s groceries away. Keith doesn’t even ask what he gets anymore – it’s always the same thing anyway. “Gonna tell me what’s got you riled up?”

Keith worries at his lip, eventually giving up on his pacing and flops down on the couch instead. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I promise I’ll tell you later,” Keith swears. Because he will – he has to. “But not yet.”

Shiro hums, agreeing but obviously not pleased with it. Keith taps his foot against the side of the couch, impatient. He wants to tell Shiro, but he can’t. Not yet. He can’t get Shiro’s hopes up until he knows for sure this will work.

To his brother’s credit, he doesn’t push any further. Shiro makes them dinner and forces Keith to shower before he goes to bed, just like any other night. This time, when Keith wakes up, it’s not to the grunts of Shiro doing pushups but rather to the _schwing_ of his cybernetic hand slicing through the air at a frequency normal hands can’t reach.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith arrives at the docks – the meeting location Pidge sent him – twenty minutes early. He would’ve been even earlier than that, but that would’ve been excessive. Even so, he’s already itching that the Sharpshooter guy hasn’t shown his face yet. Twenty minutes early is nothing – he should just _be_ here.

Objectively, he knows he’s being ridiculous. But still. This is _important_.

Keith ends up pacing up and down the docks, partly because he’s sick of standing in one spot and partly because a few people gave him weird looks when they walked past. He gets it – he looks out of place. So sue him.

Or really, don’t.

So instead he moves, focuses on the ships as he passes, a game that keeps his mind moving the same as his body. He knows a little about ships; he’d gone to the Garrison for a period of time before Shiro’s accident. After the crash though, he’d dropped out to look after his brother full time, so he’d hardly gotten into the nuances of ship mechanics, let alone flying.

There’s a variety of land crafts here though, from what he can tell. Nothing is ever docked here that can make it out of orbit – that’s all controlled by the Garrison – but he can still tell a fast ship from a crappy ship. Or at least, he kinda can.

One ship in particular catches his eye, though after looking at it closer he can’t tell why. It’s dusty and older looking, especially compared to the two speedsters surrounding it. Somehow, though, he’s drawn to it, so he steps closer.

Oh, that’s why: the door’s open.

Keith checks both ways down this row of the dock, out of habit more than anything else, before he walks in.

Who the hell would leave their ship door _open_?

The inside of the ship, or at least the entryway, is just as crappy looking as the outside. The walls are dusty, as is the floor. As if whoever owns the ship just tracks dirt in with no concern for how the sand could affect his electronics. Keith remembers the owner of the bike and wonders if there’ll be a job in the docks tomorrow to fix this thing.

And then he catches sight of the keypad.

It’s old, probably made the same year as his apartment building, because it’s an actual key _pad_ with actual keys. Keith whistles. “What a hunk of junk…”

“Who are you calling junk?”

Keith jumps, spinning around and drawing his knife. He’s not sure how the fuck this happened, but some guy managed to sneak up on him, something not even Shiro’s been able to accomplish in a long time.

“Whoa, whoa, drop the weapon,” the guy says, holding his hands up in the universal sign of surrender.

And oh.

 _Oh_.

Keith’s heart pounds in his chest, but it’s not just from the adrenaline anymore. Because _wow_ this guy is really cute.

He drops the knife.

The guy raises an eyebrow, smirk playing at his lips. “Wow, didn’t think that would actually work.”

Keith’s vaguely aware that he’s gaping at the guy, because _what_.

“Alright, well if you’re not going to introduce yourself, then I’ll do it first. Hi, I’m Lance and this is my ship. Now, who the hell are you and what are you doing in here?”

Words find their way to Keith’s mouth, though they’re not exactly what he’d been planning to say. “You left the door open.”

“So that makes it okay to just walk in, Mullet?”

“Who are you calling a mullet?” Keith snaps, already regretting any positive thoughts he had for Lance.

Lance leans against the door and examines his nails, as if this were a common occurrence. “Well if the shoe fits…”

Keith growls.

“As _great_ as this little exchange has been, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” Lance steps forward. “I have things to do.”

“What makes you think I _don’t_ have things to do?” Keith retorts, bristling. This guy is the _worst_.

“I’d assume that you’d be doing it already rather than wandering around someone else’s ship, insulting it like some kind of uncultured heathen.”

“I don’t think you even know what you’re saying.”

“I don’t think you know what _you’re_ saying,” Lance retorts.

Their foreheads brush, and only then does Keith realize that they’d been marching towards each other with each tossed insult. He leans back, taking a breath of fresh, Lance-less air. “Whatever. I don’t have time for this.”

Keith snatches his knife from the ground and shoots one last glare at Lance before brushing past him and out the door. He barely takes two steps before he hears the click of the door closing and the crunch of footsteps behind him. A moment later, he catches dark brown hair out the corner of his eye.

“Are you following me now?” He snaps.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

Keith huffs, frustrated. “Go away.”

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but I’m headed this way too.”

Keith crosses his arms but doesn’t retort, determined to ignore Lance completely if they’re going to have to walk together. He can find someone else to maintenance his sand-filled ship.

Infuriatingly, Lance follows him all the way up the aisle to the dock’s main entrance. Keith stops, expecting Lance to keep going, but the other man stops too. His eyebrow twitches. “I thought you weren’t following me,” he snaps.

“Touchy, aren’t we?” Keith growls at that. “I’m not following you, as much as you’d like me to.”

“I don’t –“  Keith cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a deep breath. Patience, Keith. Sharpshooter will be here any minute now, and he can walk away from Lance and never have to deal with his stupid face again.

Though if he keeps a memory of it locked away for lonely nights, no one else needs to know.

His tablet buzzes in his pocket, and Keith pulls it out, seeing a new message from Pidge.

_Are you there yet?_

_Yeah, I’m here._

_Well then look around, moron._

Keith tucks his tablet back into his pocket and glances around the area. He doesn’t see anyone except Lance. Frowning, he pulls it back out.

_Are you sure? I don’t see anyone here except this idiot I met earlier._

_…That’s him, dumbass._

Keith’s head snaps up, and he’s met with a horrified look – no doubt mirroring his own – from Lance. “Samurai?” Lance asks, voice hesitant.

Well. Shit.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Lance seems to be thinking something along the same lines. “Shit. _You’re_ Pidge’s friend?” He asks, rhetorically.

“Obviously,” Keith retorts.

Lance rolls his eyes and beckons to him. “Whatever, man. Come on.”

Keith follows Lance back to his ship, actually being invited in this time. “Alright, so. This is my ship, but you already know that,” Lance tells him as soon as they enter. “This hall is kinda a mess right now, because I’m bringing in cargo, but I usually keep it a lot cleaner. Wipe your feet.” He points at a mat half hidden in sand. It’s not going to do anything, but Keith wipes anyway.

Seemingly satisfied that Keith isn’t going to intentionally dirty his ship, Lance opens the door into the body of the ship. “So this is her.”

To Lance’s credit – which is not something Keith will ever admit out loud – the ship isn’t as much of a disaster on the inside as it looks on the outside or the entryway. It’s still an older model, relying on keypads and tubed wiring, but it’s not in as bad of shape as he thought. Keith follows Lance as he gives a brief tour. The ship is small, so it doesn’t take long; it’s clearly built for no more than 2 people to travel for any real length of time. It’s going to be tight, but he and Shiro are used to that.

Lance takes him into the cargo hold and opens a hatch, leading into an area that is absolutely not part of the original ship blueprints. Inside is a mattress and a few blankets. It’s barely large enough for two people.

“I don’t expect you guys to stay in there the whole time, but it’ll be better if all your things are down there for when we hit check points,” Lance explains. Unfortunately, the logic is sound.

It’s also the best plan Keith has to get himself and Shiro out of Daibazaal.

“Alright. What’s it gonna cost?”

Lance shifts his weight. “I’d like a down payment of ten thousand ruples.”

Keith frowns; that’s a lot less than he’d thought. “That’s it?”

“We can talk about final cost when we get there, but look…you guys are Pidge’s friends and, well, they explained the situation. I don’t…I don’t normally transport _people_ across the desert and I don’t think I’ll ever do it again so… just. Consider this a debt I owe them, okay?”

He hadn’t expected such an in depth explanation, a speech like this, from Lance. It’s too honest. “Uh…” He stumbles over his words. “Yeah. Alright.”

Lance sighs. “Look, just bring the payment and your friend at dawn tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” That doesn’t give him a long time to convince Shiro to come.

“Yeah, tomorrow. It’s my usual departure time and, besides, if we wait too long someone might decode Pidge’s messages.”

Keith snorted. Like that was likely to happen. “Fine,” he agrees. “Tomorrow at dawn. Don’t leave without us.”

Lance smirks at him again. “Don’t be late, Samurai.”

Keith leaves before he can let himself get drawn back into another argument.

 

* * *

 

 

The problem with agreeing to leave tomorrow is that now he has to convince Shiro to leave in less than a few hours. In theory, this shouldn’t be hard. Ever since the accident that earned Shiro his arm, his brother hasn’t had a reason to stay here. They work day to day jobs, so there’s no career tying them here, and aside from Pidge they don’t have any friends.

But Keith knows it’ll be a fight anyway.

He knows Shiro, he knows how afraid he is to do anything below the table – anything that could put Keith in danger. And while it’s admirable that the protective streak goes both ways, enough is enough. They need to get out of the city now, before the anti-cyborg movement grows any bigger.

Hell, they should’ve left back when the travel ban was proposed. But they’d stayed, hoped for the best, and now they’re stuck here. Keith can leave whenever he wants, but Shiro can’t. And Shiro won’t go by himself. (Or rather, Keith doesn’t want to let Shiro go by himself. He worries too.)

The door creaks open then shut again, breaking Keith from his thoughts.

“I’m home,” Shiro announces, even as he walks in. He’s a little sweaty – must’ve gone for a run.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Pick up groceries?”

“I went to the deli. There’s a sandwich for you in the fridge.”

Shiro grimaces but walks into the kitchen anyway. “You know we shouldn’t eat out too often. We need to save –“

“Shiro. I’m ready to talk.”

His brother stops immediately. He changes course to the living room and sits down on the couch, staring intently at Keith. “I’m listening.”

Keith sighs. He wants to draw this out until it’s too late. But he also knows he’s in for a long fight. “We’re leaving tomorrow.” He’s not one to beat around the bush, after all.

Shiro frowns. “Leaving where?”

“Here.”

“To?”

“Altea.”

If anything, Shiro’s frown deepens. “Cyborgs aren’t allowed out of Daibazaal, Keith. You know that.”

“I know.”

This time, Shiro’s the one who sighs. “And yet you found a way.” It’s not a question. Keith can sense the disapproval in Shiro’s voice, something that normally eats him alive. This time, though, he’s going to be stronger. He’s doing this for Shiro, not for himself. He’s not ashamed.

“I did, yes.”

“And if I say no?”’

Keith’s anger flares red hot at that. “I don’t think you have a fucking choice, Takashi. You heard what happened in Tottori.”

“That’s not going to happen here.”

God, this is so fucking like Shiro. He always thinks things will get better. Or, more likely, he doesn’t, so he’s just doing this to protect Keith. Fuck. Keith throws his arms up, exasperated. “Yes it fucking is! Oh my god, do you need to watch the goddamn news? I had to figure out how to smuggle you just to get you to leave the city, for fuck’s sake!”

“Language.”

“I will punch you in your fucking face and drag your unconscious body to the ship tomorrow, so help me god.”

Shiro drops his head to his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Keith – “

“No, you listen,” Keith cuts him off before he can get further. “Because I know what you’re going to say. ‘I don’t want to put you in danger’, right? Well too fucking bad. Things are getting worse here almost daily, and if they decide to take all cyborgs in I will fight them until they kill me to keep you safe. So whatever argument you’re planning to use to say we’re better off here…you’re wrong.” Keith loses steam towards the end. “You’re so wrong, Shiro. If you think I’ll let them…just…take you.”

Even the thought is too much. He has to stop himself, swallow the unshed tears, and look away before Shiro can figure it out. Because fuck everything, he will never let Shiro go without a goddamn battle.

He sits there, clenching and unclenching his fists while he waits for Shiro to argue – waits for the responding lash out. But then…

“Alright.”

Keith’s head snaps up. “What?”

Shiro sighs, running his hand through his fringe of hair. “I said okay. I’ll go. You’re right.”

Keith nearly sighs in relief. “Oh thank god…” He breathes, more to himself than Shiro. He’s giddy, close to laughing for no reason. “Guess we better pack then, huh?”

“Guess we’d better.”

 ---

By the next morning, they’d thrown all their clothing and personal belongings – a few photos, Keith’s knife – into two bags and barely gotten a wink of sleep. Keith wanted to leave the place as-is; one final fuck you to the city they’re leaving. Shiro insisted they at least make it presentable so the next tenants could move in with the furniture already there.

At least they didn’t tell anyone about their departure. (Keith had to fight pretty hard for that.)

It takes longer than he’d wanted, but eventually Keith manages to wrangle Shiro and their two bags out the door and down to the docks.

“He’s kinda an ass,” Keith tells him for the twentieth time, “but he’s our ride out of here so we have to be nice.”

“Are you telling that to me or yourself?”

“Oh, ha-ha…”

They get to the entrance, and Keith sees Lance hanging out by the pillar, leaning back against it. “What an ass,” he mutters under his breath.

Shiro side-eyes him, but Lance has already caught sight of them and is bounding across the sidewalk towards them. Keith clenches his fist and counts upwards to ten.

“Hey-o. Wasn’t sure if you’d ever show up, Samurai.” Keith ups the count to a hundred. “And you must be Mullet’s friend,” Lance ignores the death glare Keith shoots him and turns to Shiro, extending his hand. “I’m Lance.”

Shiro chuckles, the traitor. “I’m Shiro. And you already met my brother, Keith.”

“Keith, huh? I thought you were officially named Mullet.”

“And I thought you were named Annoy-“

“Lance,” Shiro cuts him off, “should we head out? Keith mentioned that you leave early?”

Lance’s expression softens as he looks at Shiro, and Keith’s stomach certainly doesn’t drop when he realizes he’s not the favored brother. “Yeah. Don’t worry – you guys aren’t that late. Follow me.”

His ship is parked in the same spot as yesterday, but when they enter, Keith notes how much cleaner it is inside. It’s also packed full. He leads them – after making them clean their shoes – to the hidden area he’d shown Keith yesterday, but Keith barely recognizes the place. If Lance hadn’t opened the false wall, he wouldn’t have known it was there.

“I showed this to Keith yesterday, but this is where you should put your stuff. You can keep the door off at night when you sleep, but we’ll hide you and put it on if we stop for inspections,” Lance gestures.

Shiro nods, ducking in and setting his bag down. “How often do they usually stop you?”

“Uh…it kinda depends. In the desert it’s hit or miss. They check almost everyone coming out of the city these days. With, ya know…” He half-gestures towards Shiro’s arm before aborting his motion as an awkward shrug. Keith represses a snort. “So you’ll need to start the journey out in there. I’ll come get you once we’re far enough out, though.”

Keith bites his lower lip. Being confined in such a small space is not something he enjoys, especially with another person inside – even if that person’s Shiro. But Lance is right: they need to keep hidden to get out of Daibazaal. Keith may not be a cyborg, but he also doesn’t have the required paperwork to leave. He’s just as much of a fugitive as Shiro is.

“Understood,” Shiro answers for them both. They scramble into the room, and Lance closes the door behind them, leaving them in complete darkness.

Despite himself, Keith’s chest tightens, the air around them turning too thin until he’s suffocating. He claws at his throat, scrambling desperately, but hands grip his own. Panicked, he thrashes out, pushes them away because _no no no_ , but they grab his shoulders. He’s pulled in, and a warm forehead meets his own.

“Keith,” Shiro’s voice breaks through his repeated litany of _nonononono_. “I need you to focus with me. Slowly now, we’re going to count.”

One of the hands on his shoulder drops, grabbing his own and guiding it until he meets solid flesh. He presses it against what he knows is Shiro’s chest, feeling the rise and fall there. “One,” Shiro starts. “Two. Three…”

Keith closes his eyes, despite being unable to see already and focuses on his breath. His heaving slows, returning to something vaguely normal. By the time Shiro reaches twenty, Keith is able to count with him. They keep it up, whispering words as the ship moves around them. Keith thinks he feels it stop once or twice, but he isn’t sure.

They’re well into the triple digits when a scraping at the door makes Keith jump. He breaks away from Shiro and turns in the direction of the sound, tense. Despite being unable to see, Keith can feel Shiro’s posture tense next to him.

But when the door opens, letting in a sharp light, blinding them, Lance’s voice is the one to greet them. “Oops, sorry. That was probably too sudden. We’re out of the city now, though.” Keith hears footsteps, and by the time he’s able to open his eyes again, Lance is gone.

“What an ass,” he says for probably the billionth time.

Shiro laughs, but Keith ignores him and walks out.

The cargo hold is packed but windowless. Maybe for someone like Pidge, this would be interesting, but for Keith it’s boring. He prefers the outdoors, being able to see the sun and sky. So he wanders out of the cargo hold into the hallway.

There’s a window near the door they’d entered, curved so he can see behind them. They’re kicking up dust as they speed over the desert, brown sand flying out behind them. Through the sand, Keith can see the city they’d come from, fading into the background. They’re moving at an incredible speed away from it – in a few moments it’ll be completely out of view.

He’d never thought it would be this easy.

\---

The thing about traveling across the desert is that after a few hours, everything is boring. Keith can only stare out the window at the passing scenery for so long before he gets stir crazy. The ship is decently sized – it is a cargo ship after all – but there’s nothing there for him to _do_.

Which is how he ends up wandering to the cockpit.

He’s not looking for Lance, not really. He’s just bored. That’s all. He’s bored and wants something different to look at than the occasional rock formation that zooms past too fast for him to get a good view of. Not that he wants to look at Lance or anything. Because he definitely doesn’t.

When the door slides open, he’s greeted with the sight of Shiro leaning back against the wall, talking with Lance as if they’ve known each other for years. He’s calmer, more relaxed than Keith’s seen him in a long time. That sight alone is enough to make up for his panic attack earlier. It also relieves him of his fear that this wasn’t a good idea – leaving Daibazaal has already done Shiro good.

His entrance draws both their attentions. Lance’s lips quirk upward in a smirk that makes Keith’s eyebrow twitch. “Well, well, well. Didn’t expect Mullet to join us so easily.”

“My name’s Keith,” he growls back, good feelings gone. How can Shiro be so relaxed around Lance when he’s clearly a douche? It’s not fair.

Lance waves his hand dismissively, as if Keith’s name doesn’t matter to him. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Something I can help you with, _Keith_?” The way he says his name is infuriating. Keith grinds his teeth together, hands balling into a fist.

“Nothing.” He turns to head out.

Unfortunately, that interaction is nothing out of the ordinary.

Keith does his best to avoid Lance, but he can only wander the few halls of the ship so many times. It’s barely even been a full day, and he’s fairly certain he could navigate them with his eyes shut. So yes, he ends up back in the cockpit later that night as his stomach rumbles. He and Shiro had brought supplies with them, enough food to last a few weeks if they plan it out, but Keith had forgotten to eat.

Because going to meet Lance while hungry and stir-crazy sounds like a great idea.

“Shiro went to bed,” Lance greets without even looking behind him. He’s bent over the console, messing with something on the display. Clearly, he doesn’t expect Keith to hang around.

Just to be contrary, Keith walks forward and takes a seat in what should be the co-pilot’s chair.

It works – Lance looks up at him, eyebrow quirked. “Can I help you, Mullet?”

Keith ignores it. He’s not going to be tricked into leaving again so easily. Not when he’s this _bored_. Besides, if Lance is just going to fight him, it’ll give him something to do. “What’re you doing?” He asks instead.

The question seems to throw Lance off. He frowns at Keith, as if trying to figure out what game he’s playing at. “Calibrating our route.”

“Why? Haven’t you been this way before?”

“Um, yeah.” Lance still appears uncertain, as if Keith’s line of questioning is a ruse, hiding something deeper. “But things around here change all the time. Outposts move, bandits take over new roads, things change.”

“Bandits?”

“You don’t think the desert is filled with just rocks and sand, do you?”

That is exactly what Keith had thought. “Of course not.”

Lance looks like he’s about to call him on his bullshit when Keith’s stomach chooses to rumble loudly. It’s not something he should be embarrassed about, as it’s not something he can easily control. But that doesn’t stop the flush rising up the back of his neck.

And it definitely doesn’t stop Lance’s smirk. “Hungry, are we?”

“Shut up.”

Lance chuckles, the sound leaving a warmth pooling in Keith’s stomach. “If you wanted food you could’ve just asked.” He gets up out of his chair and heads to the door. Once he reaches it, he pauses and turns back. “Are you coming or not?”

Keith jumps up, not eagerly at all, and follows Lance. He’s wandered the hallways all day, but he hasn’t entered any rooms. For one, he’s not bored enough to break into someone else’s home. And for another, he’s never really been in a ship before. He has no idea what the doors could lead to, and he doesn’t want to accidentally fling himself to a messy death in the desert.

Lance opens one of the doors, leading them into a small room. For lack of better word, Keith would call it a living room. It has a small couch, a kitchenette, and a few books piled messily around. It’s a bit of a nightmare to navigate, it’s so cramped, but compared to everywhere else on the ship, it’s homey.

“Take a seat,” Lance instructs, walking to the kitchenette. Keith sits on the couch, looking out the window straight in front of him. The desert flies by at a high speed, but sitting on a couch watching it is nicer than standing in a hallway or leaning back against a wall.

“Here.” He twitches as a hand appears in his vision, thrusting a bowl of something at him.

Keith takes it and sniffs it, trying to disguise his jolt from earlier. “What is this?”

“Poison. Eat it.”

He glares at Lance, but the cargo pilot ignores him, climbing over the couch and taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Keith. His bowl is filled with the same thing, and Keith doesn’t really think it’s poison, so he goes at it.

It’s tastier than it looks, tastier than the bars he and Shiro brought. Overall, not a bad meal.

They sit in silence, eating, and Keith’s aware that this is the first time he’s been alone with Lance without fighting. Sure, they’ve only known each other a couple days now, but it’s still strange. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see shadows on Lance’s face, casting him in a soft purple, courtesy of the sunset outside.

Keith swallows the last of his meal down, a lump forming in his throat. “Thanks for the meal,” he tells Lance as he scrambles up. He leaves the bowl on the counter and books it out of the room, ignoring the squawk of protest that comes from behind him.

\---

The days pass, sort of blending together. Lance is tight lipped about how long it will take them, snapping at Keith that “it’s different every time, okay? Let it go.” when Keith asks him for the ten thousandth time.

He either wanders the halls, bored, sits in the living area, bored, or fights with Lance. Keith is so stir crazy he starts training three times a day, using things in the cargo bay to act as weights or obstacles. He’s going to go insane at this rate. Getting across the desert had always seemed like a good idea before, but in his mind it was only a blip in his plan, a footnote of space between getting out of the city and getting to Altea.

At night, he tosses and turns, fingers twitching against his sheets. He knows it’s driving Shiro nuts, knows Shiro has his own things to deal with, but that doesn’t help him stay still.

“Keith,” Shiro starts, voice weary, several nights in. “Take a lap.”

“I already did. Twice.”

“Then calm your breathing.”

Keith growls. “We’ve been stuck in here for three days.”

He hears Shiro’s sigh, feels the dip of the mattress that means Shiro’s turned towards him. Keith keeps his gaze determinedly turned to the ceiling. “You really ought to stop avoiding Lance. It might be useful if you let him teach you to fly. I know you’ve always wanted to.”

“I don’t want that asshole to teach me _anything_.”

Shiro, the traitor, actually chuckles. “You can admit you like him, you know.”

Heat flares on Keith’s face. “Who would like him?” He demands, voice nearly hysterical.

Shiro sighs again, heavy and deep. “Just…try to get some sleep. We’ll get to Altea eventually.”

And they will get there eventually. But for now, Keith’s still stuck here.

He manages to fall asleep eventually, but he wakes up just as restless as before. For once, he heeds Shiro’s words, heading towards the cockpit. He’s not going to fight with Lance this time. He just…needs something different. Something new that can keep him from going absolutely crazy being stuck in this stupid ship.

“Keith,” Shiro greets when he walks in. He’s been spending most of his time with Lance these days, hanging out in the cockpit. Keith wonders what they talk about. “Good timing.”

“Good timing for what?”

“We need to make a stop,” Lance speaks up, not looking at him. “Well, actually we’ll need to make two, but the first one’s coming up today.”

“Isn’t the number one priority getting us to Altea?” Keith asks, irritation already piquing.

Lance hits a button on his console harder than strictly necessary, and the scenery around them slows slightly. “You forget I have other cargo here, and that this ship can’t run on nothing.” He’s irritated as well, shoulders tense as he stands. “And since you’re here, I could use some help carrying things.”

Keith opens his mouth to protest, to remind him that Shiro’s _life_ is at stake here, but Shiro himself cuts him off. “You should go, Keith. I know you’ve been a little stir-crazy being trapped in here.”

Keith snaps his mouth shut. He _has_ been incredibly bored, wanted a way out of here. It’s unlikely he’s going to get Lance to keep going anyway, especially if they need to stop for supplies. “Fine,” he grits out. “I’ll help.”

“Good. Sit down, we’re getting close.”

He and Shiro take seats, Shiro in the co-pilot seat and Keith in the booster seat behind them. Lance guides them, turning the ship almost 90 degrees as he steers. Keith has no idea which direction Altea is, but he still clenches his fist at the change in direction. He doesn’t like the idea that they’re stopping, even if he agreed to help.

Lance guides the ship behind a rock formation, stopping under an overhang, something like a cave. He flips a few switches and the lights on the console go dark as Keith feels a jolt underneath him. He gets up. “Shiro, I need you to watch the ship. Mullet, follow me.”

Keith bristles at the nickname he can’t seem to shake but unbuckles his seatbelt and gets up, following Lance anyway.

They head to the cargo bay, Lance instructing Keith on which items to gather. He loads them on a pallet, locking them down. Lance clicks something and the pallet floats up, hovering and easy to maneuver. Keith guides it, following Lance to the back of the cargo bay.

Lance hooks the pallet to the back of a hover bike and pulls a helmet over his head before tossing one to Keith. “Put this on. Wouldn’t want to get your mullet tangled.”

Keith resists the urge to do something childish like stick out his tongue and tugs the helmet on. He hesitates as Lance climbs on the bike. There’s barely any room for him on it – he’d be stuck on the back, behind Lance.

Lance, seeming to sense his hesitation, turns. “Come on. The faster we get there the faster we can get back.”

The logic holds up, and with some reluctance, Keith climbs on the back behind Lance. There’s nowhere for him to hold on aside from Lance himself, so Keith wraps his arms around Lance’s waist, hooking his hands together. Heat radiates off Lance’s back to his chest through the half-inch of space there is between them.

With a whoosh, the cargo door opens. Keith barely has a chance to brace himself before Lance kicks the bike into gear and they speed off.

Any distance between them closes from the speed, the rush. Keith slides forward until he’s pressed flush against Lance, from his groin all the way to his chest. His heart pounds so hard he’s sure Lance can feel it on his back.

And as soon as Keith’s accepted that he’s going to die from embarrassment, the bike slows. His attention shifts from himself outward, and he catches the entrance of what looks like a small, walled town. The bike slows to a stop, parking just to the outside of the gates.

Keith stares up the wall. It seems flimsy, looking like it’s made from a thin sheet metal. At the top is a single tower, wooden, with a sentry standing there. He looks away when he realizes the sentry is watching him.

Lance has already peeled himself away from Keith and climbed off the bike, helmet tucked under his arm. Keith hops off as well, mimicking him. Lance clicks the controls, separating the pallet from the bike.

“Shouldn’t we keep our identities hidden?” Keith hisses in his ear before Lance can move.

Lance chuckles. “Relax. Out here this isn’t smuggling – it’s normal trade.”

Keith risks another glance up as Lance steers the pallet through the gate, nodding at the guards. The sentry’s still watching them. He hurries off after Lance, not wanting to look too suspicious.

The town is small, something Keith should expect given that they’re out here in the middle of nowhere. Walking around, he catches sight of old robots, outdated models. Some of them are missing parts. But all of them are doing odds and ends work alongside humans. He realizes he’s staring when he catches a few strange looks and hastily looks away, watching the back of Lance’s shoulders instead.

But Keith can’t get away from the feeling like they’re being watched. Lance can say whatever he wants, but they’re wandering into a town with smuggled – likely stolen – goods. There’s bound to be police or a security force or law of _some_ kind.

“Wait here,” Lance tells him, stopping in front of a building that looks the same as all the other ones.

Keith bites back his automatic retort of _why_ and instead steps off to the side as Lance pushes the pallet under the cloth door. He leans back against the wall, chewing on his lower lip. He’s tense, overly so, but can he really be blamed for it? Shiro’s back in the ship, waiting for them to come back, and Lance is so casual about the whole thing. Keith is _positive_ they’re being watched, maybe even stalked. What if –

“Hey.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin when a hand rests on his shoulder. Keith looks over, meeting Lance’s wide eyes with his own. He swallows against the lump in his throat. _Shit_ , Lance is beautiful.

“What?” He asks, defensive.

“You need to calm down, man.”

Keith bites back another retort. “Done already?”

Lance shrugs, putting his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. They paid most of it in advance. Makes the end transaction a lot smoother.” He leads the way back through the town, leaving Keith to tow the pallet. He notices that there are a few boxes, different than the ones Lance had taken in.

He wants to ask more. _What did they pay? What did you bring them?_ But instead he nods. Time to get back to Shiro, get on with things.

“Let’s get a drink.”

Keith’s head jerks up at Lance’s suggestion. “What?” He asks, eloquent as always.

“I said let’s get a drink. Come on, you need to relax, and I haven’t had a drink since my last run out here.”

“But Shiro –“

“Is fine,” Lance finishes for him. “And probably relieved to have this chance to rest in peace.”

Keith bristles at that. “What are you suggesting?”

“That you need to lighten up. Starting with a drink.” Lance stops in front of another cloth door, lifting it. “Come on.” Keith looks meaningfully down at the pallet, but Lance just tuts at him. “Leave it. It’ll be fine.”

Really, Keith shouldn’t get in the habit of giving in to Lance. They’re only together – on this journey, not together in any other sense of the word, nor does Keith want that – for a short while longer. It’s not like he owes Lance anything.

That doesn’t stop him from abandoning the pallet and ducking under the cloth.

Inside is darker and dirtier than any bar Keith had frequented before. He hadn’t frequented a lot, to be fair, because Shiro’s never been a fan. But it’s also dirtier than anywhere else he frequented in Daibazaal, but in a different way.

As in there is literal dirt. Because there’s no floor.

Someone bumps into him from behind, a rough “watch it” grunt following the impact. He looks up, automatically ready to fight, but an increasingly familiar hand claps his shoulder. “Drinks, not fights.”

Keith lets Lance steer him to the bar, and they pull out two stools next to each other. Keith has no idea what to drink, but Lance holds two fingers up to the bartender, taking care of it for him. That settles that then.

“So,” Lance starts. “I think we should work on getting that stick out of your ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been uptight since we met. I thought you’d relax once we got out into the open desert, but you’re even worse than before.”

Keith huffs. “Well, excuse me for caring about my brother.”

Two drinks slide across the counter – Keith thinks it might be real wood – towards them. He grabs his, pushing the other towards Lance and ignoring the stare he knows he’s getting from the cargo pilot. Keith takes a swig of his drink and immediately regrets it.

 

 

 

He chokes, coughing as the burning – disgusting – liquid makes its way down his throat.

As if a spell had been broken, Lance bursts into laughter. He claps Keith _hard_ on the back, just making Keith cough more. He stops choking, at least, and levels Lance with a deadly glare. “ _What_ are we drinking?”

If anything, Lance’s grin grows even wider. “I have no idea, buddy. We drink whatever they can get their hands on. It’s different every time.” He does take a drink of his own glass, and while he doesn’t choke the way Keith had, he at least makes a face. “Wow, that is disgusting.”

The bartender clears his throat and glares over at them. Both Keith and Lance ignore him.

Lance takes another sip.

“I thought you said it was disgusting?”

“It is. Not gonna stop me from drinking it though.” He gestures to Keith’s glass. “Gotta drink if you wanna keep up.”

“Who says I want to keep up?”

Lance just raises his eyebrow.

The challenge is enough for Keith. He picks up his glass, leveling Lance with a glare.

And then he drains the whole thing.

It burns just as much as it had the first time, but Keith manages to drink it without choking. He drinks the whole thing, down to the last drop and slams the glass back on the table. Lance’s face is open, his expression moderately impressed. “Well, you got me there, Mullet,” he says before downing his entire glass too.

They stare at each other for a moment before both bursting out laughing. It’s almost too soon for the alcohol to be hitting him, but Keith’s stomach is already pleasantly warm. “I can’t believe you did that,” Lance tells him, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

“You dared me.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t really expect you to follow through with it.”

“You shouldn’t underestimate me,” Keith retorts.

He doesn’t expect the warm gaze Lance gives him in return. Nor had he expected the stomach filling butterflies that come along with it. “You can bet I won’t make that mistake again.” It sounds fonder than someone that infuriating has any right to.

Keith searches, eyes darting around, for a change of subject. Anything that will make him calm down. Come back to himself. “What got you into this job anyway?” He lands on.

Lance frowns, but it’s a blink-and-you-miss-it type of expression, because a smile reappears almost immediately. Though this one is admittedly smaller than the last. “Needed to support my family,” he answers easily. “Plus I disagree with a lot of the laws the cities are putting in place. This helps me defy them and pays pretty well. The worse the laws are, the more I make.”

“Isn’t it risky though?” Keith asks, biting his tongue immediately after. What a stupid question.

Lance seems to think so too. “Uh, duh? If it weren’t, you would’ve just walked out the front gate.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to go back in.”

“Hmm…you have a point there.”

“Why don’t you have a backup?”

“What, like a partner?”

Keith nods.

Lance frowns, face darkening. “Well, aside from some people in Altea and Pidge, there aren’t a lot of people I trust, you know? I’d need someone who wouldn’t turn me in immediately.”

 _I wouldn’t turn you in_. Keith clamps down the thought before it can escape. He’s drunk enough to think it, but sober enough not to speak it.

He doesn’t even know where it came from, if not from the drink. He doesn’t want to _smuggle_. He wants to live with Shiro, peacefully in Altea. They can finally get real jobs rather than picking up things as they come in, never knowing if they’ll get something the next day.

At least, that’s what Keith tells himself.

He looks around the bar, evaluating the area. The people there are just as brown and dusty as everything else in the town. They sit at tables or huddled in groups together at the bar, all drinking the same disgusting shit he and Lance just had. And yet, they still look happier than he and Shiro.

“Hey, Keith.” Lance’s voice draws Keith’s attention back to him. The cargo pilot is a little fuzzy around the edges, giving him an almost ethereal quality. _Angel_ , he thinks. Lance’s face goes through a complicated set of emotions before landing in a fake smile. “Come on, you’re drunk. Let’s get you out of here.”

“’M not drunk,” Keith slurs, words betraying him. They hadn’t been sitting in there that long, had they? Maybe shitty alcohol just works faster.

Lance chuckles. “Or you’re a lightweight. C’mon, we’ve been here a while.” The familiar warmth of Lance’s hand rests on his shoulder, and Keith obeys it immediately. He never wants it to let go.

It does once they duck outside, and Keith catches a glimpse of the fading sun. “’Ow long…in th’re?” He blinks, eyelids heavy as Lance steps out of the bar.

“Wow, you’re pretty drunk.”

“’M not.”

“Yeah okay…” Lance grabs the pallet – miraculously still there – and starts guiding it away.

Keith snatches it from him. “’M _fineee_.”

“Holy hell, you are a horrible drunk,” Lance remarks. Keith chooses to ignore that, instead focusing on pushing the pallet. It was a lot easier earlier, when there weren’t two alleys to try and navigate. He frowns, concentrating hard on the one he wants to go down and pushes.

There’s a loud clatter, and Keith collapses on the ground. He vaguely registers that he hit a wall. He blinks as two Lance’s appear over his head.

Okay, yes, so he might be a little drunk.

“’M a drunk driver,” he announces.

Lance chuckles. “Yes you are. Get up, big boy.” He reaches out his hand, and Keith takes it. _Warm_. He never wants to let go. Except Lance leads him and guides him down so he’s sitting on the pallet. He wants to get up and chase Lance when he walks away, but his head is swimming. This…this is fine too. “Just hold on,” Lance murmurs.

The pallet glides beneath him, smooth. Keith lays back and stares at the sky. He can see so many stars from here, so many more than in Daibazaal. His double vision makes them overlap, but even so, he’s _positive_ he’s never seen this many stars before. “Beautiful,” he mutters.

The pallet stops, and Keith looks around to see the gate that scared him before. Lance helps him up and off the pallet. He leans against Lance, even as the pilot hooks the pallet in place on the back of his bike. Keith doesn’t complain one bit when Lance helps him onto the bike and climbs on, behind him this time.

Mostly because Lance’s arms are wrapped around him.

He leans back, feeling the steady breaths against his back as Lance manipulates his hands around the handlebars without letting go. Like this, it’s almost as if they’re holding hands. Keith doesn’t say that out loud though, he doesn’t want to jinx it.

The journey back to the ship is less nerve-wracking than before. Maybe it’s because Keith’s in front rather than in the back, his hands helping Lance move the bike. More likely, it’s because of the alcohol coursing through his veins. Regardless, they’re back at the ship before he knows it, and to Keith’s displeasure, Lance peels himself off, only lingering to help Keith stay upright.

The pallet goes inside first, while Keith stays on the bike outside. He tilts his head back and stares at the stars here, too. He thinks there might be even more than in the small town. He wonders how many there would be if he climbed a mountain.

“Alright, Mullet. Time to come in.”

He lowers his head slowly, looking at Lance standing just inside the entrance to the ship. The light illuminates him from behind, and for the fourth time that night, Keith thinks he might be an angel. “Help me in,” he insists, tongue still heavy from the drinks.

Lance sighs but comes outside anyway. When he gets close enough, Keith catches sight of a soft smile on his lips. He really is the most beautiful man Keith’s ever seen. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Take me to bed,” Keith answers thoughtlessly.

Lance’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open in a beautiful O before he smiles again. “I am taking you inside.”

Keith shakes his head. “ _Your_ bed. I don’t wanna sleep with Shiro. He kicks.”

Another chuckle. Keith thinks it might be his favorite sound. Lance lifts Keith’s arm, looping it around his neck, and heaves Keith off the bike. “Maybe another time, Mullet. When you’re not so drunk.”

He wants to argue, tell Lance that _no, we have to do it now_ , but his mouth is heavy. His _everything_ is heavy. Keith nearly falls against Lance, legs barely lifting as he half walks half drags himself inside. He’s so tired, and Lance smells amazing. He just wants to sleep with Lance, would that be so hard?

Keith thinks he might hear Shiro’s voice, might hear Lance’s responding. It’s nice that they get along. Important that Keith finds someone who likes his brother too. He wouldn’t like Lance if he didn’t like Shiro. He wants to tell Lance that, but between blinks, Lance disappears. Huh. How did that happen?

Shiro’s face swims in front of his eyes, mild concern marring his features. He shouldn’t frown; he’d look better with a smile. Keith opens his mouth to say it, but the next blink doesn’t end, and he promptly passes out.

 

* * *

 

 

Honestly, fuck hangovers. Fuck alcohol. And fuck Lance.

Keith enters the living area with the couch, clutching his head the morning after his and Lance’s adventure. He would’ve stayed in bed longer, but the cargo hold’s too warm, and the constant motion without being able to see out a window was making him nauseous.

So he ends up in the living room. Keith collapses on the couch upon getting there, groaning. Fuck walking too.

“Morning,” a cheerful voice breaks through the pain, and Keith looks up to glare at the cause of his current issues.

Seriously. _Fuck_ Lance.

The pilot walks in, appearing happy and refreshed, as if he hadn’t chugged the same amount of alcohol as Keith last night. Granted, it was only one glass, but still. That drink packed a punch. “What’re you so happy about?” He grouses, turning his head into the cushions. At least it’s cooler in here than in the cargo hold.

“Glad to see you too,” Lance replies. There’s something of a laugh hidden in his voice, and Keith wants to punch a wall. Instead, he tilts his head just enough to peek an eye out and catches the glimpse of a mug. Keith frowns but sits up, accepting the steaming cup that’s handed to him. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“What is it?” He asks, suspicious.

“Relax, it’s just coffee.”

Keith takes a sip, only half believing Lance, but it really is just coffee. “This supposed to be a hangover cure?”

“Water and sleep would work better, but sure. We can call it a hangover cure.”

Begrudgingly, Keith takes another sip. It’s not bad, and really he’s flattered Lance got him anything. But the flipping of his stomach just makes the nausea worse, so he counts it as a loss instead. “You always this cheerful in the mornings?” He grouses, wanting to keep Lance’s attention on him.

“You always this cranky?”

Keith doesn’t respond to that. Partly because the thought of opening his mouth makes him want to vomit, and partly because Shiro chooses that moment to enter the room. “Keith, glad to see you up and about.”

Keith glares over his coffee at Shiro. What an ass. Just like Lance, he looks completely refreshed. Hangover free, for sure. At least he has a reason. Lance is just walking around looking perfectly happy when he should be just as miserable as Keith. At least. Preferably more.

“I’m not sure up and about are the words I’d use,” Lance laughs, handing a mug to Shiro as well. Keith’s stomach sinks. It suddenly feels less special.

So, just to be a dick, he flips Lance off.

Luckily enough for him, Lance just laughs as he leaves the room. Unluckily for Keith, that means he’s alone with Shiro now.

“So,” Shiro starts, sliding onto the couch next to him.

Keith groans and slides down, coffee tipping precariously in his hand. “Fuck off.”

“Keith.”

It’s the tone that gets to him. The one Shiro saves for when Keith’s being especially difficult. The combination of the tone and his pounding headache takes away his self-restraint. “I’m dealing with it.”

“Dealing with it,” Shiro deadpans.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think this is something you should just ‘deal with’.”

“Shiro, please,” Keith begs, hoping he won’t vomit.

But Shiro doesn’t relent. “He’s good for you, Keith. Hangover notwithstanding. I haven’t seen you this open around anyone since Pidge. You really –“

“Drop it.”

“I’m just –“

“Drop. It.” Keith grits out.

He stares determinedly at his coffee mug, chanting _don’t puke don’t puke_ in his mind as he wills Shiro to drop the subject. Something must’ve gone right, because all he gets is a sigh as Shiro drops his hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Drink some water too,” he advises before leaving Keith alone on the couch.

\---

The next day is far more bearable. Without the pounding headache and constant, nearly paralyzing nausea Keith is able to walk around again. He’s embarrassed, mostly by how he acted the day before.

But also partly because he can’t remember much from the night he drank with Lance.

He gets the feeling he did something embarrassing though, because Lance keeps shooting him these little looks whenever they’re around each other. Secret smiles that leave Keith blushing and stumbling over his feet. The worst part is the looks Shiro gives him. He may have dropped the subject the day before, but he doesn’t drop it completely. Every time Keith thinks he might finally be able to stare at Lance’s back without being caught or watch his legs as he walks away, he hears a sharp clearing of his throat.

Which, of course, just makes the blushing and stumbling worse.

But something, whatever it was, changed on that trip. Now, Lance comes to _him_ if he needs help, not to Shiro. Keith no longer finds himself bored out of his mind. Instead he learns the ins and outs of Lance’s ship. And it’s not nearly as crappy as Keith had thought.

Turns out the ship had been in Lance’s family for some time, rarely used because it had broken down. Lance had taken it upon himself to clean it up, refurbish it, put it to good use. Then, of course, he’d gotten into smuggling and needed to add features. Faster engine, false walls in the cargo hold, etc.

So really, he’s a pretty impressive person all around.

Keith will never tell him that, though. They keep fighting and arguing with each other, but it’s more for show than anything else now. They argue simply for the sake of arguing, or so it feels to Keith. Lance smiles at him every time, and the way he calls him _Mullet_ is far fonder than it was before.

And the crazy thing is that they actually make a pretty good team. Keith is stronger than Lance, but Lance is thinner than Keith. Between the two of them, they manage to get things taken care of that Lance tells Keith he hasn’t gotten to in years. And hey, if Keith likes the feeling of Lance’s legs thighs wrapped around his head when Lance sits on his shoulders to reach taller areas of his ship, Keith’s not going to tell anyone.

There’s only so much maintenance they can do on a moving ship, especially when the pilot is one of the ones doing the maintenance. Lance had apparently taught Shiro enough about piloting so that he could change the ship directions if necessary, but Lance still needed to be there for important direction changes.

“How did you do this before?” Keith asks, curiously. He can’t help himself. Being around Lance makes him want to learn everything about everything.

Or at least, everything about him.

Lance is sitting at the helm, steering them around the rocks in a canyon. Shiro is hovering over his left shoulder while Keith leans over his right, chest just barely touching the tip of Lance’s shoulder. “I set alarms and stuff. Technically they’re still set, but Shiro seemed interested in piloting.”

 

 

Keith shoots a look to his brother, who just shrugs and says, “I’ve always wanted to be a pilot.”

“So what if it happened at night?” Keith pushes, needing to know. What if Lance didn’t wake up? Could he have died?

“Well, the ship is programmed to slow down before it hits something. So if I don’t wake up it’ll just stop right in front of the canyon wall. Usually I wake up though.”

He’s talented, Keith has to admit. Lance steers around the rock formations as if he’s been doing it for a long time. He probably has. Keith can’t stop himself from staring straight down at Lance rather than out the window. Rocks fly past, but he can’t bring himself to care about anything past the brown hair beneath him.

He wonders if it’s as soft as it looks.

Keith stops himself before he can reach out and touch it. _I’m dealing with it_ , he’d told Shiro. In a way, he’d thought he was. He’d thought fighting with Lance would push them further apart, make these _feelings_ go away. But if anything, it just made them stronger.

He really doesn’t know what he’s going to do when they reach Altea.

Keith needs to get out of here. “I’ll…uh, be right back,” he lies between his teeth. He can’t even look over at Shiro, knowing the look Shiro is undoubtedly giving him already.

He ends up in the living area and sits on the couch, sharpening his knife. He stares out the window, watching the scenery zoom past. Keith likes the desert. Despite them flying by, it’s calm, quiet. The small town they’d stopped in was nice, now that he thinks back on it. They worked alongside their robots – he wonders if they’d be okay with cyborgs too.

It’s only because he’s sitting there, watching the outside world that Keith notices them start to slow down. The outside, illuminated by the waning sunset, changes from blurred colors to more distinguishable shapes.

They can’t already be in Altea.

Keith jumps to his feet just as the door opens.

“Oh, hey, I thought you might be in here.” Lance is leaning against the doorway, all casual elegance in his limbs.

He clenches his knife tight in his fist. “Yeah.”

“Second stop. Wanna help again?”

“Second stop?”

“Yeah. More cargo to drop off. A few supplies to grab. Same as last time.”

Last time is filled with memories of being pressed against Lance’s back as they raced across the desert. Blackness after chugging his drink that resulted in soft smiles. So yes, he _very_ much wants a repeat. And this time, he’s going to remember the whole thing.

Keith stands up. “Sure,” he tries for nonchalant but he doesn’t think he quite gets there, because Lance’s grin widens.

“Let’s go then.”

The pallet is already loaded up when they reach the cargo bay. Lance tosses a helmet at Keith before putting on his own. A rush of daring overwhelms Keith for a moment, and he stops Lance before he can walk towards the hoverbike. “I want to drive.”

Lance laughs. “Do you know how?”

“Not…really,” Keith admits, drawing another laugh from the cargo pilot. “But it can’t be that hard.”

He expects some resistance, but instead Lance steps back, motioning forward. “By all means.”

The best part of being in front is the feeling of Lance’s chest pressed against his back, the weight of his arms as he reaches around, resting his fingers on Keith’s. “This one is the throttle,” Lance breathes in his ear, lightly squeezing his right hand around Keith’s. Their fingers almost thread together. “You lean a little to turn,” Lance continues, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Keith’s neck. “And these are your breaks.” This time Lance does thread their fingers together, guiding Keith’s fingers to the cool metal just off the front of the handlebars.

“Got it.” Keith means to sound cool and collected, but his own voice comes out hoarse, breathless.

“Do you?” Lance’s lips tickle Keith’s ear, shooting goosebumps up his entire spine.

He turns his head towards Lance, catching sight of that playful grin. “Yes,” he whispers.

If Shiro waves them off, Keith doesn’t even notice. Driving the hoverbike is intoxicating. Being in control is better than before, and Keith’s surprised at how _easy_ this comes to him. He’s at home on the bike, wind whipping past his face. Keeping the attached pallet in mind, Keith cuts a corner sharper than necessary just to feel Lance’s arms tighten around his waist. Oh yes, he could definitely do this.

By the time they reach the town – nearly identical to the first – Keith’s skin is thrumming with how _alive_ he is right now. He gets off the bike, pulling the helmet off with a grin. One that widens when Lance dismounts, legs shaking, hair askew once his own helmet is removed. “I’m never letting you drive again,” Lance declares.

“That was amazing.”

Lance’s eyes sparkle when they meet Keith’s own, and his stomach flips over. The image of pushing Lance against the hoverbike and slamming their lips together runs through Keith’s mind, but he blinks and the cargo pilot is already standing. He pats Keith on the shoulder once before stepping over to grab the pallet. “Let’s just get this inside, shall we?”

This time, Keith is completely distracted by Lance. He doesn’t pay attention to the guard in the tower, doesn’t panic over the imagined people stalking them, doesn’t stress when left outside while Lance does his business. Instead he gets lost in the muscles of Lance’s back, the way the cargo pilot’s pants hug his ass and thighs as he walks. His thoughts race towards fantasy while Lance is inside, thinking of how he can draw this out, make this trip last long enough to get his hands on Lance.

Fighting with him was a waste of time; Keith’s been gone on Lance since the moment he spotted the ship with the door wide open in Daibazaal. _I’m handling it_ goes out the window when Lance reemerges, smile so bright it blinds the setting sun. “Get a drink?” The pilot asks, holding up enough GAC to get them a fancy meal in Daibazaal.

Probably more.

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, following Lance into the bar.

It’s amazing that two different towns, miles and miles apart, can look exactly the same. Lance orders them both drinks, but Keith has no plans to drink it. He pushes it to the side once Lance gets back, leaning across the table instead so their knees brush together underneath. “There a reason you wanted me to come with you?”

“You’re not gonna believe that I needed the help, are you?”

“Since you had me stand outside the whole time? No. Definitely not.”

Lance leans forward, fingers brushing against Keith’s. “What do you want?”

Keith’s mind races. He wants so much. He wants to know what it feels like to be over Lance, under him, running his hands down his chest. Wonders if his skin is as smooth as it looks. Keith’s mouth dries, jaw open as he tries to come up with something to say. Something that isn’t as graphic as the image of Lance dropping to his knees and sucking him off right here under the table. “You,” is all he manages to get out.

Lance’s eyes widen, pupils taking over almost his entire iris. “Forget the drinks,” he says, standing up. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Yes.”

Lance grabs his hand, tugging him away from the table. They barely make it out of the bar before Keith loses his grip on himself. He pulls Lance in to him, slamming their lips together. It’s hardly romantic, but Keith can’t care less, because Lance’s lips are on his. They’re even softer than he imagined. He sucks Lance’s bottom lip into his own mouth, relishing the sound Lance makes when he does.

Somehow, they stumble down the street, alternating between heated kisses and walking with wandering hands. Keith hadn’t even taken a sip of his drink, but he’s punch drunk off the taste of Lance finally on his tongue regardless. Lance pulls him into a building, one that looks the same as the others on the outside but has a desk on the inside. Keith refuses to step away from Lance as he talks to the person behind the desk. Keith’s hands wander down, running up and down Lance’s perfect ass.

Lance squeaks when Keith squeezes him there but otherwise makes it through the conversation. The two of them get a key and stumble up the stairs. Keith can’t keep his hands to himself, touching every part of Lance he can reach.

They pause just long enough for Lance to unlock the door – with an actual key – and turn to Keith. “Ever done this before, Hot Shot?”

“Shut up.”

“You're right, what am I talking about? Of course you have. You’re beautiful,” Lance murmurs, breathing straight into his ear as they push into the room.

Keith hesitates once the door closes behind them, torn between his desire to shove Lance against the door and his need to be shoved himself. He wavers too long, long enough that Lance's smile softens, and he's reaching out, taking Keith's hand with his own. “Come here.”

Lance eases him onto the bed, hands more gentle than they had been moments before. When their lips meet again, the urgency from earlier, the crashing of lips against lips is gone, replaced by a reverence that lingers with every breath. Keith clings to Lance's chest, not wanting to let him go further than a few inches, but Lance takes his time, easing Keith open, urging him to relax into this new pace.

He gets Lance's shirt off first, hands tired of gripping cloth, longing to run against smooth skin. He barely manages to get his mouth on the naked collar bone before Lance is pushing him back against the sheets. “Let me take care of you tonight,” he requests, voice low and husky. Keith never stood a chance at saying no to that.

Lance's lips light a fire on Keith’s skin, setting him ablaze through nerves he hadn’t even known existed. The pilot refuses to let Keith raise so much as a finger, urging him back onto the sheets every time Keith so much as thinks of helping. Hands and lips touch everywhere; he's never had anyone like this before. Lance seems to reach into his very soul, dusting the cobwebs away with every kiss, every breath, every thrust, until he can barely remember his own name. All he can think is _Lance, Lance, Lance_ , the name branding itself into his heart with every mark Lance makes.

His toes curl, fingers grasp for purchase, before his hand settles around Lance's neck, pulling him in as close as he can without merging them into a single person. He's never gone this slow before, never slept with someone he actually _cares_ about. It's almost frustrating how slow it is; he can feel everything building, feel how close he is, but Lance keeps him poised on the brink, never tipping over the edge.

When Lance does finally let him fall, Keith's gasping, struggling to breathe. And even as he falls, he knows this is it, this is something he’ll never come down from, and damn it all, Keith doesn’t want to. They ride it out, lips no longer moving against each other but open, breathing each other in instead.

Time barely holds any meaning anymore; Keith can't say how long he lies there, clutching Lance to himself before he relaxes, lets the pilot pull out and roll off him onto the bed. Keith turns to him, body and eyes heavy, and drinks in the sight the way a drunk man guzzles down more alcohol. Lance is beautiful next to him, smile still soft as he runs his fingers through Keith's hair.

“You're beautiful,” Lance whispers, voice bordering on reverence. Or maybe Keith's too tired to think.

“Is it always like that?” He asks, tongue weighing heavy in his mouth.

“No,” Lance murmurs, voice lulling Keith to sleep. “It's never been like that before.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Keith wakes up, he’s warm. The scratchy texture of the blanket he’s wrapped in is familiar, but this time he’s not shoved to the side of the mattress. A slim body, void of any cold cybernetic parts, is wrapped around him instead, holding him close. Keith barely has to shift his head to feel the jaw above him.

His eyes blink open slowly, taking in the smooth expanse of brown neck, broken up by already purple bruises in the shape of his own mouth. He presses forward, back tingling in a reminder of what had happened last night. As if he needs one.

Keith closes the distance between himself and the skin in front of him, placing an open mouthed kiss on the nearest bruise. The pilot rumbles against him, a low chuckle escaping. “Good morning to you too,” Lance murmurs, voice husky as he pulls Keith closer to his chest.

“Mmm…” Keith replies, sucking the skin into his mouth. His hips are pleasantly sore but that doesn’t stop him from rocking them into Lance’s thighs.

“If I’d known you’d be like this, I would’ve made a move a lot sooner.” Keith backs away and pulls Lance down for a real kiss, only to be pushed away at the last second. “Yeah, sorry dude but no morning sex with morning breath. They have toothbrushes and stuff in the bathroom.”

Keith groans. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. Come on, it’s better if you have to work for it.”

Lance nudges him when he doesn’t move, and with a heavy sigh, Keith rolls out of bed and walks into the bathroom, stark naked. They hadn’t really had a chance to explore or really even see their room the night before. It’s a sparse area, as dreary as some of the places he and Shiro had lived when they’d moved around.

Keith freezes, toothbrush sticking halfway out of his mouth. “Shit,” he mutters past his toothbrush before spitting the paste out.

Lance gives him a strange look. “What? You don’t want to bottom again, do you? Because I was really hoping –“

“No. I forgot to message Shiro.” He races out of the bathroom and hunts around the room for his clothes. How the hell had they gotten so scattered? Keith pulls on each item as he finds it, frantically scrambling for the rest.

At least until a hand rests on his shoulder. “Calm down, Keith. I can comm him.”

“We don’t have any devices for you to ping.”

“Except my ship.”

Keith stands up, half dressed and stares. Lance hasn’t gotten dressed at all yet. His face looks mildly damp, as if freshly washed and dried, and he has a towel loosely wrapped around his waist despite not showering. When Keith doesn’t respond right away, Lance leans over to the nightstand next to Keith and grabs his comm. His thumbs move quickly before he turns it and shows Keith the message. _It’s Lance. Keith and I got held up last night. We’ll be back soon._ “Better?”

Keith’s shoulders drop, entire upper body relaxing. “Yeah. A lot better.”

Lance smiles at him, setting down his comm. “Good.” The way his head tilts gives Keith the perfect angle of the mark he’d left on Lance’s neck, the one he’d been playing with earlier. He steps forward, hands falling to Lance’s waist, just above the towel.

For a moment, his fingers tighten as Keith wonders how hard he’d have to push to leave bruises here _too_. But then he releases Lance, taking a step back. Then two as he tries to regain his sanity. “We should get back,” he says eventually, eyes scanning up and down Lance’s chest. He’d left marks there too, ones he’d love to chase again and again as he maps out the pilot’s body until he knows it better than he knows his own.

But they really should get back to Shiro.

Lance’s jaw ticks, and his lips quirk into a crooked smile. “Sure thing, Samurai.”

Keith doesn’t let his gaze linger. With every shift of Lance’s weight, the temptation to push him back on the bed, Altea be damned, overwhelms him. So instead he finishes getting dressed and turns away, staring at the walls. They look like they’re made of clay, but a touch reveals cold concrete instead. Grey and worn, just like the rest of the town.

“You can turn around now.” Lance’s voice comes out almost strained, but when Keith turns he’s still wearing that crooked smile.

Lance handles returning the key while Keith steps out to make sure their pallet hasn’t mysteriously disappeared overnight. For a moment, he thinks it might have, but then Lance pops out of the hotel, and he remembers they left it outside the bar.

The hoverbike, too, is intact. Lance turns to him when they get there and tosses the helmet at him. “You driving again?”

Something about it seems desperate, and Keith clings to it. He’d done something wrong back there; he’s starting to get that now. In a thousand years, he’ll never figure out what it was, but he doesn’t want Lance talking to him in that strained voice. Only giving a half-smile instead of a full-faced grin. So he catches the helmet and smirks. “You know it.”

Nothing changes, not immediately, so Keith pauses. He grabs Lance’s hand before he can put his own helmet on and pulls him in. The kiss is shorter this time, close-mouthed and cleaner than last night’s. When he breaks away, Keith swears Lance’s cheeks are dusted in pink. “I didn’t get a chance to earlier,” he explains, tugging on his helmet.

He doesn’t drive as fast back to the ship as he had coming out. Lance’s arms cling tight around him, and Keith doesn’t ever want him to let go. But part of him – a rapidly shrinking part – knows he made the right decision. Even when he’d gone out drinking and hooked up with random guys before, he’d never stayed out all night, never even left without messaging Shiro where he was going. No matter what his plans are for after they reach Altea, he can’t hurt his brother. That includes making him worry.

But then one of Lance’s thumbs slide under his shirt, and Keith almost crashes the bike. He’s addicted, infatuated, in too deep. Even Shiro had told him to go for it in his own way. They should’ve absolutely stayed a little longer. He could’ve pushed Lance, shown him the way Keith likes it – hair pulling, pressed against the wall as he makes Lance _beg_ for it – but instead he’s out here. Maybe they could go behind one of these rocks…

“Whoa, slow down,” Lance tells him sharply.

Keith’s heart hammers, and he lets off the throttle, squeezing the brakes. At first he’d thought he’d missed something, but then he sees it: the ship. Ignoring Lance’s cry of protest, Keith speeds up, racing around the last few rocks before skidding to a dangerously short stop in front of the ship. The cargo door is wide open, rope and dirt scattered down the entryway.

Lance leaps off the bike first, not even snapping at Keith for his stunt. He tugs off his helmet as he runs in, dropping it on the ground. Keith shuts off the bike and follows almost immediately after. He sprints up the runway and into the nearly empty cargo bay. He ignores the area, kicking broken boxes to the side as he fights his way to the false wall. It’s intact, but he still rips it open with a shout. “Shiro?”

Nothing. The mattress is still exactly where he remembers leaving it, along with their bags. Keith doesn’t put anything back before he sprints off again. The ship isn’t all that large, but he sprints down the hallway, shouting Shiro’s name anyway. “Shiro? Shiro!”

Keith opens every door three times, checks under everything. He doesn’t even register Lance’s bedroom when he bursts in and checks under the bed, in the bathroom, everywhere. The ship is a disaster, signs of a struggle lining almost every room. It’s a grim picture which brings down his mood with every step.

Keith’s clutching the wall, using it as support as he stumbles his way back to the cargo bay. He sinks down, back pressed against the wall when he gets there, ignoring Lance as he brings the hoverbike and pallet inside. “Fuckers took _everything_. All my cargo, my life, my livelihood. I am going to _kill_ them when I find them.”

Lance’s words wash over him, cold reality settling on Keith’s shoulders. He clutches at his chest, breathing hard the way he only does when trapped alone in a dark room. Keith doesn’t even notice he’s crying until he feels soft hands on his face and looks up at a concerned Lance. “Keith? Hey, you with me?”

Keith struggles to breathe, mouth gaping as he reaches for air. “Shiro,” he gasps finally.

“Shiro?” Lance asks. The words finally register, and he leans back looking around. “Where’s your brother?”

“He’s gone.”

Anything else Lance says or might say is drowned out by the roaring in Keith’s ears. Shiro, his brother, _the reason he’s out here in the first place_ , is gone. Vanished. Knowing his only family in the world has disappeared off the face of the planet, leaving him completely alone, is a sobering thought.

No, he thinks, looking three feet in front of him. There’s a stain on the ground. Keith leans closer to it, making out the shape of a hand, fingers pointing facing directly towards the wall rather than towards the cargo hatch – the only way out. Not gone, then.

Taken.

He stands up and walks towards the door, catching sight of another handprint, pointed the same way. It’s a clue. Even in his injured state, Shiro’s still smart enough to leave him a clue. Keith needs to go west.

Lance is nowhere to be seen, having disappeared sometime during Keith’s second panic attack of the day. Really, that’s for the best. Less for Keith to worry about.

Before Lance can come back, Keith bursts into a run to where the hoverbike is still parked. The pallet will just slow him down, so he detaches it and races off, not even bothering to grab a helmet.

He flies over the desert too fast, dangerously fast. Almost immediately, he regrets not grabbing a helmet. Wind rushes past him, kicking his hair back and making his eyes water. But even so, he zooms in the direction Shiro had been pointing. There are no more clues that he can see, and Keith certainly isn’t going to slow down enough to check, so instead he races forward, hoping the universe will be on his side for once.

In a way, it is. But in a much more real way, it isn’t.

Keith can see just well enough through the pain in his eyes to catch signs of civilization. He slows down, pulling between some of the large dunes. He can’t remember seeing other towns as they drove, other than the two they stopped at. Still, though, this is the only thing in the direction Shiro’s hand had been pointing. He has to be here.

Hoverbike hidden, Keith climbs the dune, keeping himself low to the ground. He pokes his head over the top, wishing he had binoculars or something. But he doesn’t need them to see: it’s not a town.

None of the identical buildings from the other towns are visible. In fact, there aren’t any buildings at all. Instead, it’s made up of a collection of tents, pushed close together. The collated metal wall with a guard that Keith saw at both towns is also missing, replaced instead with two armed guards, circling the camp a half circle apart. Keith doesn’t need any more evidence than that to realize what they are.

Bandits.

Shit. He ducks back behind the dune, lying on his back. Bandits have Shiro. Or, at least he thinks they do. He has no idea where Shiro is and no idea what state he’s in. All he has is a hoverbike and the knife he keeps on himself at all times. Overall, that against guns and an unknown number of enemies isn’t very helpful.

He pokes his head over the top again, getting another look. There are somewhere between fifteen and twenty tents. It’s hard to tell from here; some of the tents run into each other, creating either more tents or a tunnel system. Impossible. He needs binoculars.

Keith lies back, cursing himself for rushing in without thinking. Best case scenario, he might be able to break in unseen and get Shiro out. More realistically, he’ll be captured too. Worst case, they’ll both be killed.

As if to make things worse, the distinct whirr of something mechanical approaching reaches his ears. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. He doesn’t even have a plan yet, and already he’s been found. He shouldn’t have gone out with Lance, shouldn’t have stayed the night no matter how much his body – his heart – tell him it was the best decision he’s ever made. Right now, it’s anything but. Both he and Shiro are about to _die_ and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Keith doesn’t even slide down the dune, just stays lying where he is as the whirr gets loud enough there’s no way whoever it is can’t see the bike. The sound cuts off suddenly, which doesn’t make him feel any better, and then there’s the soft crunch of shoes on sand. This is it. This is how he dies.

“Only you could fall asleep on the sand, Samurai.”

Keith’s eyes fly open. “Lance?”

“The one and only.” Lance hovers above him, grinning. Immediately, Keith tugs him down onto the sand. “Whoa there. I’m all for a round two, but I’m not looking forward to digging sand out of my ass after.”

“Shut up.” Keith peeks his head over the top, but nothing’s different. The guards are still circling, though one’s different; they must’ve gone through a rotation.

“Relax, they didn’t see me.” Keith wants to say that Lance is just pouting, but when he falls back to the side of the dune, Lance is staring at him with a hard expression. “So what’s the plan, hot shot?” There’s no teasing in his voice, no sign that Lance is actually amused to find Keith out here with his stolen hoverbike. And hell, how did he even get out here?

He raises his head just enough to see the pallet parked right in front of the hoverbike. “It can move that fast?”

Lance follows his gaze. “No. Not really. Why do you think it took me so long to get here?”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“They’re a set. It has a homing beacon. Are you going to keep asking me about the pallet or do you want to tell me the plan so I can actually help?”

Keith grunts, turning back to stare over the dune, for all the good that’s done. “Don’t have one,” he mumbles.

“Can’t hear you,” Lance replies. Heat radiates off him as his shoulder brushes against Keith’s.

“I said I don’t have one,” Keith hisses. He doesn’t mean to snap at Lance, but he can’t afford to be too loud, and he’s more mad at himself for not having a plan past stealing Lance’s hoverbike and running away.

Lance practically crushes him as he rolls onto his side, rustling around for something. The heat and pressure are gone too soon, then Keith hears a metallic snap. When he looks over, Lance has a scope out and is staring through it at the collection of tents. If possible, he regrets leaving him even more.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“What?” Keith leans closer, curious.

“I’ve come across these fucking bandits before.” Lance takes the scope away and passes it to him without turning. “Take a look.” Keith raises it to his eye, finally seeing the tents in more detail. “Look at those two guards.”

“They have guns…?”

“Yeah, but look at their faces.”

“They’re wearing masks.”

“Exactly. Gas masks. Keeps them anonymous, protects them from sandstorms, perfect place to put a little robotic lens.”

He’d been scanning the tents, looking for signs of Shiro, but at that he nearly drops the scope and turns to Lance. “So it’s pointless to even try.”

“No.” Lance turns to him, and Keith realizes his mistake too late. Lance is way too close. Keith feels every puff of breath, can see every small freckle span his nose. He hadn’t even noticed that last night; he’d been too focused on chasing his own pleasure to pay attention to every nuance of Lance’s being. “It’s not pointless,” Lance breathes, fluttering Keith’s hair with the words.

“We don’t even know where Shiro is,” Keith argues.

Lance holds out his hand. “Give me the scope back,” he says when Keith does nothing but stare dumbly at him. He passes it back, and Lance takes it, looking down again. Keith doesn’t look away from Lance, even as he speaks. “I can see some of my cargo outside that brown tent. The rest are their houses and stuff.” He lowers the scope again. “Shiro has to be in there.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be.” Lance looks back at him. “I may be wrong.”

Keith nods. “What do you think we should do?”

“Wait till night, sneak in, grab him and as much of my cargo as we can.”

“Wait. Your cargo?”

Lance sighs. “Yes, Keith. You know, the stuff I was taking across the desert? Both legally and illegally? The only reason you were able to travel with me at all?”

“Those are just things,” Keith hisses.

“Those things are my livelihood,” Lance shoots back. That shuts Keith up. Partly because, yes, Lance is right. Partly because it’s still just _stuff_ , whereas Shiro is a living, breathing person. Lance closes his eyes, seeming to steel himself. “I’ll handle that part, okay? Don’t worry about it. Shiro comes first.”

“Thank you.”

They wait until night, alternating between watching the guards walk around and lying back on the sand. Keith hates himself for how close he stays pressed to Lance, how his body refuses to allow even a hair’s width of separation between them. When night comes, Lance slides away, leaving Keith cold.

“I think we should flank the tent,” Lance whispers once they’re down the dune. “You’re like a ninja, so you should go down first. I’ll follow with the pallet.”

“You said Shiro comes first!” Keith whisper shouts.

Lance’s hand covers his mouth, silencing him. “Yes, and he does. But unless you’re a superhero, we’re gonna have a hell of a time dragging him out of there without help.”

Dragging. Because Shiro’s likely hurt enough that he’ll need to be taken out rather than move on his own. The thought is sobering enough that Keith nods, frowning. It works, because Lance at least removes his hand. Keith moves first, gripping the handle of his knife tight in his hand. He nods and turns away, but Lance stops him with a word. “Samurai.” Keith looks back. “Be careful.”

With Lance’s words ringing in his ears, Keith creeps around the dunes until he’s behind one just outside the tents. He pokes his head out, counting down the seconds under his breath. Just as expected, the guard comes around the corner. Keith stays ducked down, glad they waited until night, as the guard walks past. He waits another five seconds after he’s disappeared around the other side before darting out.

There’s no sign of Lance, but Keith doesn’t have time to think about that. Instead he moves quickly, knife still in hand, as he slips between two tents. It’s dark where he is, but he can see lights shining from under some of the tents. Keith sticks to the dark space between them, sometimes passing under a canopy, other times under nothing but the stars. He’s all but memorized the layout from above, so he moves with purpose, only pausing at intersections to see if anyone’s spotted him yet. So far, nothing.

The brown tent is dark when he reaches it, and Keith’s not sure if that’s good or bad. He looks out from the side of the tent, but the front’s facing towards a lit tent which has an open front flap. Damn. He cuts through the side instead and slips inside.

Boxes from Lance’s ship are strewn all over, mixed with unfamiliar ones Keith suspects were taken from other cargo pilots. He doesn’t matter though, because tied up in the middle, like a piece of meat, is Shiro.

“Shiro!” He whisper shouts, racing towards the middle. His brother’s propped up against one of Lance’s crates, tied with rope. Keith cuts it as soon as he’s there, pushing Shiro’s bangs away from his eyes. He smears something that might be blood – it’s too dark to tell – across Shiro’s forehead. His cybernetic arm is gone too, the stump caked with dried blood. Keith wants to check it for infection, make sure he doesn’t have any more hidden wounds, but he’ll have to save that for later. Right now he needs to get Shiro out of here.

“Keith?”

The whisper comes from behind him, but Keith doesn’t even bother to turn and look. He checks his brother’s pulse first. Weak but present. “Help me with him,” he instructs in a low voice.

Lance is there almost immediately, crouching on the other side of Shiro. He wraps Shiro’s arm around his shoulder, and Keith does the same with the other, or at least as well as he can with only a stump of an arm to work with. Lance nods to him, and the two of them hoist Shiro up between themselves. “I couldn’t get the pallet in between the tents, but I did get it closer.”

Keith grunts. “Lead the way.”

They slip out of the tent, and sneak back towards where they came from. They don’t take the exact path Keith had when he snuck in, but it’s close. Lance pokes his head out, checking for guards no doubt, and Keith takes the time to examine his brother’s face. Shiro’s still unconscious, and the smear on his face is definitely from blood.

“All clear. We need to move fast,” Lance whispers to him.

Between the two of them, they manage to drag-carry Shiro out of the tents and back to the pallet. They lay him down on it, and Lance straightens. “Stay here. Watch him. I’ll be right back.”

He disappears before Keith can respond, back around the dune. Keith checks Shiro’s pulse again, but there’s no change. Still weak. Still present. He glances out from behind the sand, but there’s no sign of Lance. He looks back at Shiro, lying unconscious on the pallet, then over to the tents. Still no Lance.

With a mental curse, Keith darts out from the dune. He sprints straight for the tents, slipping between two of them before pausing to catch his breath. He doesn’t hear anything behind him, so he must’ve timed it well, purely on accident. Once his chest is no longer heaving, Keith moves, weaving through the tents too fast. He bursts through the slit in the brown tent when he gets there. There’s a pile of boxes in the middle of the tent, all ones he recognizes from the ship’s cargo bay, and he hears rustling on the other side.

“Lance,” he hisses. The pilot’s head pops up. “We need to leave, what’re you doing?”

“Grab the pile there and get out, I’m still gathering things,” Lance tells him with a wave.

“I can’t carry all this.”

“Heads up.” The warning comes in time for Keith to catch the flying projectile Lance had tossed at him. He looks down and sees a remote. “Pidge made it. Makes stuff lighter for loading. Don’t have time to talk, hurry.” Keith nods sharply and turns to leave.

The distinct sound of a gun being cocked hits his ears, and the front flap of the tent opens. One of the guards levels their rifle at Keith while another masked person points their gun at Lance. “Drop it,” one of them says. With the masks, Keith can’t tell who’s talking.

“Search over! Move, Mullet!” Lance shouts. His words are followed by a crash, but Keith doesn’t have time to see what it is before Lance shoves him. He stumbles a few steps but catches himself and bursts into a run. “Cargo!” Lance reminds him. “Shield!”

He gets it, even with just those few words, and Keith pushes the cargo in front of himself as he rushes out the tent. He’s less cautious this time, not bothering to stay with the dark patches. Gunshots ring around him, but Keith keeps moving, single-minded as Lance shouts behind him. “Go, go, go!”

Some gunshots are closer than others, but he hopes those are Lance. Keith doesn’t slow or turn, shoving the nearly weightless pile of cargo through the tents and out. Then he pushes into a full out sprint. He skids to a halt once they reach the dune with the pallet, but the cargo pile keeps moving. “Whoa!” Lance shouts, bursting past him. He stops it from the other side then pushes it backwards onto the pallet by Shiro. “Get on.”

Keith’s one step ahead of him, though, already hopping on the pallet. Once Lance gets there he pulls the handle up and hits a button. “Hold on!” Keith barely has time to grab Shiro before the pallet’s moving, faster than he’d thought possible.

They get out past the dunes, and Keith catches sight of hoverbikes zooming out of the tent. “Shit!” He shouts. “Lance!”

“On it!”

Lance has his rifle already in his hand. In a moment, the scope is screwed on, and then he’s shooting. He shoots slower than the bandits on the bikes, but his aim is also better. Where their shots fly wide, Lance’s hit true. Keith can’t tell if he’s aiming to kill or just maim, but each shot he takes hits its mark. One bandit flies off their bike. One slumps over the handles, and the bike goes flying into a sand dune.

The pallet slows down, and that’s Keith’s only warning that they’re near their own bike. “You drive,” Lance tells him. “I’ll hold them off.” As much as Keith wants to stay where he is, clinging to Shiro so he can keep his brother safe behind the cargo boxes, Lance should stay on the pallet.

“Don’t let him fall,” he warns. He hops off the pallet before it stops, tripping but staying upright as he runs the rest of the way to the bike. He hops on, feeling it rush to life beneath him and only has to wait a second before Lance shouts: “Go!”

He treads the line between too fast and too slow. He barely makes out the sound of Lance’s rifle shots over the wind roaring in his ears. The desert is calm, quiet aside from their battle, and it’s only because of that that Keith can find the way back to the ship.

The shots slow down, then stop completely about halfway there. Either Lance offed them all or they gave up. Keith slows down a little. Just enough so his eyes aren’t burning and he can make out rock formations.

The ship is still open when they reach it, so Keith drives all the way up into the cargo bay. Lance hops off almost immediately, and the bay doors close. Other than that, Keith loses track of his surroundings. He cuts the power to the bike, letting it drop to the ground and races back to the pallet. Shiro’s lying exactly how he left him, but Keith checks for a pulse anyway.

Once found, he rushes off to the main area. He fills a large mug with water, grabs some towels and runs back. He’s too afraid – and too weak – to move Shiro off the pallet, so instead he tends his wounds there. Aside from the cut on his right arm where the cybernetic was removed and the wound on his head, there are also small scrapes on his hands and bruises on his ribs. Keith does what he can, knowing enough from the times he was beaten up before to patch him up. He drags the pillow and blanket out from their hiding spot and comes back, making Shiro comfortable while he rests at least.

When he finally sits down, done with his task, he notices the distinct feeling of movement underneath him. Keith groans and pulls himself up, wandering out of the bay. He hasn’t seen Lance since they arrived, however long ago that was. A glance out the window confirms that they’re moving, moving fast. Continuing towards Altea, Keith hopes. He walks to the cockpit, but when he first steps in, he doesn’t see Lance.

Then he does.

“Lance!” Keith sprints across the room to the control panel, dropping to a crouch beside it. Lance is lying with his back pressed against it, eyes closed. There’s a dark patch on his left side, and a careful touch reveals to Keith that it’s just as wet and red as he suspected.

The pilot cracks his eyes open, lips quirked up. “Hey, Samurai,” he whispers.

“Oh god…” Keith breathes. “When were you shot?”

Lance offers a small shrug, barely anything at all. “Not sure. I think it was back in the tents.”

“You’ve been hurt that long?” Keith curses himself for not noticing. For being so focused on his brother that he missed Lance getting hurt. Getting shot. “Why were you even in there still? You should’ve come out as soon as you had your boxes,” Keith scolds.

“Needed this.” Lance nods to his right, and Keith’s eyes drop to his side. Lance’s hand is wrapped around the metal of Shiro’s cybernetic arm.

Keith reaches over and picks it up, lifting it carefully. “You went back for this?”

“Course,” Lance rasps. “Shiro’s important to you.”

“Lance…”

“I think I’m bleeding out,” Lance whispers weakly.

Keith’s fingers tighten around Shiro’s arm. “No. I’m not going to let that happen.” He shoves Lance’s shirt up so he can see the wound – why is there so much blood – ignoring the whimper Lance lets out when he does that.

“What are you doing?”

Keith growls, activating Shiro’s arm so the hand glows purple. “Shut up and trust me.”

He presses the hand to Lance’s side at the same time he leans in. Lance lets out a moan of pain, but Keith swallows it, pushing their lips together. He tastes like sweat and sand, but Keith doesn’t care. He drops the cybernetic limb once its job is done but keeps his lips glued to Lance. He brings his hands up to cup the pilot’s cheeks, kissing him once more before he backs away. Lance goes limp underneath him, but a check of his pulse reveals he’s just passed out.

Keith hopes they’re close to Altea.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro wakes up early the next morning, confused but otherwise okay. “I don’t think my ribs are broken,” he tells Keith as the two of them sit on the couch, examining the arm. They’ll need a professional to put it back on Shiro, so for now he’s one handed.

“And your head still hurts?”

Shiro shrugs. “Not so bad. How’s Lance?”

Keith scratches his arm, looking away. After Shiro had woken up, he’d helped Keith carry Lance into his bedroom. “I’m not good at healing people.”

“You did the right thing,” Shiro reminds him. “He needed the wound cauterized, or he would’ve bled out. You saved his life.”

“He’s scarred now,” Keith argues. “I should’ve picked something smaller.”

“Keith.” Shiro rests his hand on his shoulder. “You used what you had access to. Lance won’t be mad at you, I promise.”

That’s not what matters, though. Keith is mad at himself. Mad for not noticing earlier so he wouldn’t have to resort to that. Mad for not being able to help Lance more than he did. Mad that Lance is still in his room, either unconscious or avoiding him. “Let’s just get to Altea,” he mutters.

Shiro pats him on the shoulder and stands up. “I’m going to check on him.”

Keith doesn’t follow him. He avoids Lance’s room when the pilot is in there, and he avoids the cockpit once Lance emerges. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t keep his eye on the pilot once he rejoins the land of the living.

He stalks Lance. He watches him from afar when he comes out of his room, paler than normal but definitely alive. He watches Shiro thank Lance for saving him and the way Lance scratches the back of his neck as he insists it’s no big deal. Keith follows him to the cockpit, keeping a careful distance to make sure Lance doesn’t fall.

But he doesn’t interact.

The remainder of the trip to Altea only lasts a few more days, an awkward quiet affair where Shiro shoots him these _looks_ – they still haven’t talked about the night Keith spent out with Lance – but doesn’t say anything. Both Lance and Shiro heal well enough, but Keith knows they’ll both need to see a doctor when they reach Altea. He can force his brother, but he doesn’t have a say over what Lance does, the knowledge of which hurts his chest.

Arriving in Altea is anticlimactic. Keith had thought they would see the city, and he would immediately feel better. After all, Shiro will be safe inside the walls, and they’ll be free to start a new life. But instead all he sees are walls and the knowledge that he’ll never see Lance again.

And, damn, doesn’t that hurt.

Lance doesn’t make them hide in the back when they reach the gates. Instead, all three of them sit in the cockpit – well, Lance and Shiro sit, Keith hovers. It’s the first time Keith and Lance have been in the same room since that night. He’s more conscious than ever of the pilot. Every shift of weight, every small twitch of his hand, every word he says. “I have two refugees from Daibazaal,” Lance tells the guard when they get there. The guard doesn’t ask for any paperwork, doesn’t even look surprised. Instead he nods Lance in, motioning to where he can park.

They fly the last several minutes in silence as Lance guides the ship to the yard the guard had pointed at and lands it for the last time. There’s a lump in Keith’s throat he can’t swallow around, and as soon as the ship cuts power, he rushes out of the cockpit back to the cargo bay. He and Shiro had already packed, so all Keith has to do is grab his backpack, and he’s ready.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a chance to avoid saying goodbye. Shiro finds him and makes him wait for Lance. Smiling Lance, whose eyes don’t match the grin plastered on his face. It breaks Keith’s heart, and he hates himself for it.

“Thank you,” Shiro tells him, shaking Lance’s hand with his left. His cybernetic is in his backpack, top of the list of things they need to deal with. “Really. You saved my life in more ways than one.”

“It’s nothing,” Lance insists, pink dusting his cheeks. “You’re a good guy, and I owed Pidge one anyway.”

Shiro steps back and nudges Keith forward. Keith can’t meet Lance’s eye though, and neither of them reach out to shake hands. His brother clears his throat when Keith doesn’t say anything. “Thanks,” he mutters, staring at Lance’s ship rather than the pilot himself. Then he repeats it, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Thank you.”

“It was nice meeting you guys,” Lance says, voice strained. “If you need anything, my buddy Hunk owns a diner in the Balmeran district. There are cheap motels there to stay at for a few nights too. Seems seedy, but it’s actually a pretty cool place.”

“Thank you, Lance. We’ll go there.” Shiro’s hand lands on Keith’s shoulder, and he steers them away.

Keith walks down the streets like a zombie, moving where Shiro guides him without registering any of his surroundings. Like Lance said, they find a cheap motel to stay in and drop off their bags. Keith sits heavily on the bed, staring at the wall but not seeing it.

“Come on,” Shiro jerks him out of his staring. “We need to get food.”

Keith looks out the window, shocked to find it dark outside. When had it gotten so late?

Shiro guides him to a diner for dinner with food he won’t stop raving about, but Keith barely tastes it. “Keith.” He looks up at his brother, vaguely aware that this isn’t the first time Shiro said his name.

“Sorry,” Keith mutters.

“You’ve been out of it since you guys saved me. Want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing.”

Keith puts down the fry he’d been holding. He’s not going to eat it anyway. “I can’t stop thinking about him…bleeding out. He’s going to go back out there by himself, and…he said he’d seen those bandits before. One of these times they’re going to kill him for real, because there will be no one there to save him.”

Shiro sighs, reaching across the table. He peels Keith’s hand out of a fist – he hadn’t even realized he was making one. “You and Lance work well together.”

“He doesn’t work with others.”

“Have you asked?”

Keith pulls his hand from Shiro’s grip. “I can’t leave you here alone.”

“Keith, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Really. But you need to do something for yourself.”

“I’m not going to abandon you for some guy –“

“But he’s not ‘some guy’,” Shiro interrupts. “Is he?”

Keith thinks about Lance, about the small glances, Lance teaching him to drive the hoverbike. Kissing Lance outside the bar, finally sleeping with him in the hotel. All of it felt _right_. Like a piece of the puzzle that makes up Keith had slotted into place. “No,” he admits. “He’s not.”

“I’m fine on my own, Keith. We’re in Altea now, not Daibazaal. I’ll find a job, get a new arm. Buy a new place where you can stay when you’re here.”

“I don’t want to leave you to fend for yourself.”

Shiro smiles. “I’m not going to lie, if you guys can postpone leaving for a few days I won’t complain. But I’ll be fine, Keith. You’re the reason I’m here now, this is the least I can do.”

Keith’s heartbeat kicks up, a future painting itself in front of his eyes. A life with Lance, learning to pilot with him. Transferring cargo across the desert. Fighting bandits. It’s a life he’d never dreamed of, but it’s the one he wants more than anything now. “I’m going to him,” he declares, commited now.

“What’re you waiting for, Keith?” Shiro asks, still smiling. “He’s in the Arus shipyard.”

Keith pushes himself out of the booth, pausing just long to smile softly at Shiro. “Thank you.”

“Go, Keith.”

He races through the city, stopping a few times to ask directions to the shipyard. A few wrong turns, but he makes it there. Keith skids to a stop in front of the now familiar ship, lips curling back up into a broad smile. The door’s open, just the way it was when he first met Lance. He wanders in, heading to the cargo bay. It’s emptier than before, most of the boxes and crates already taken out.

But Keith’s eye is drawn to the pilot walking through, likely taking inventory or something. He leans against the wall, just watching Lance for a little bit until the cargo pilot turns, finally seeing him. Keith relishes the way Lance’s eyes widen, the way his jaw drops.

“Some guy left the door to this hunk of junk open,” he says by way of greeting.

Lance gapes at him a few moments before closing his mouth. “Who are you calling a hunk of junk?” Lance asks, voice husky.

Keith pushes himself off the wall and closes the distance until they’re only a foot apart. “So I was thinking,” he says, keeping his voice low, “you could really use a hand transporting things across the desert.”

“What makes you think you’re qualified to help?”

“Well, I’ve been across once before. Helped this guy out with some bandits.”

Lance licks his lips. Keith’s eyes drop to them, and it’s all he can do to not let out a groan. “What made you come back?” Lance asks, flirting gone from his voice, the more sober tone back.

“I…” Keith swallows, reigning the words in and going for something lighter. “I care about you. I can’t see you hurt again, Lance. I don’t want to live here not knowing where you are, if you’re okay.”

“So this is you…wanting to babysit me?”

“No,” Keith insists. He reaches out, grabbing both of Lance’s hands in his own. “This is not about babysitting you.”

“Be specific, Keith. I don’t want to read more into this than there is.”

Words aren’t Keith’s strong point, they never have been. So he closes the rest of the distance between them, pulling Lance down into a kiss by his neck. His fingers stay firm on the back of Lance’s neck as he kisses him. He doesn’t want Lance to think he’s here for just sex though, so he keeps it tame, no matter how much his body strains for more. Then he breaks away, but he doesn’t move his hand, doesn’t step back.

“I want you,” he says. “I want everything about you, if you’ll have me.”

“Jesus.” Lance drops his forehead to Keith’s. “You really want this? Travelling across the desert?”

“Is that a yes?”

“I couldn’t say no if I tried.”

That’s enough for Keith. He lifts his chin just enough, and Lance does the rest of the work so they’re kissing again. It’s less pure this time, open mouthed and desperate. Keith shoves Lance back until he’s pressed against one of the few remaining crates. Lance’s fingers tangle in his hair while his own explore Lance’s body. He pushes up the pilot’s shirt, splaying his palm against the raised skin of the burn, and that’s enough to break them apart for air for a bit.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, stealing another quick kiss.

“No. I got some medicine, you don’t need to worry.”

“Good.” Keith pulls him down for another kiss before another thought occurs to him and he breaks apart again. “I’m not sleeping on that mattress any more.”

Lance laughs. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises before pulling Keith back in for another kiss. The start of their future together.

**Author's Note:**

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